


A Stirring

by Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody



Series: KH F/F One Shots [2]
Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Castle of Dreams (Kingdom Hearts), F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 06:22:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19193476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody/pseuds/Six_Piece_Chicken_McNobody
Summary: If this evening has proved anything to Cinderella, it's that miracles are possible with just a bit of faith and quite a lot of luck.Unfortunately, luck has two sides, and the stroke of midnight was the coin flip.(Aqua's battle with the Cursed Coach, from Cinderella's POV.)





	A Stirring

If anyone had told Cinderella that she would witness, with her own two eyes, a pair of mice turn into horses, a pumpkin turn into a luxury coach, and her tattered dress turn into a pearlescent ball gown—complete with satin gloves, glass slippers, and a tiara—they would have received a polite smile and a cheerful, “Well! Isn’t that something to look forward to!” while Cinderella privately considered that they were out of their blessed _mind_.

But if this evening has proved anything to her, it’s that miracles are possible with just a bit of faith and quite a lot of luck.

Unfortunately, luck has two sides, and the stroke of midnight was the coin flip.

Cinderella runs across the courtyard, trying to reach the château. It feels like a sick finish line to chase after. For years, that house has been little more than an extravagant and well-ornamented tomb for her family’s memory, along with a prison for herself, where her jailers don’t even have the decency to give her an hour of outdoors time some days. Except in winter, of course, when the firewood needs to be chopped and her cuticles need to bleed.

But it had been a warm and loving home, once, and that’s what she races toward now, trying to outrun her present fast enough to make time reverse itself and deliver her back into the past, when she was happy, and _safe_. When she could afford to waste wishes on fanciful things like secret jewel mines and enchanted forests, and not basic necessities like three square meals and a chance to bathe every day.

A sharp pop followed by a keening whistle sails over her head. She tries to brace for impact without slowing down. Mouse-horses, gourd-coaches, and rag-dresses are all well and good. But this? This is just preposterous.

Another pumpkin hits the ground no more than ten feet from her, kicking up a spray of soil and exploding in rinds and flames. A startled cry escapes her, and she falters, but she doesn’t stop. At least the monsters are distracted by the chaos. They swarm at the rotten wreckage, sniffing it and pulling apart the tender meat of the pumpkin with their claws, fighting over the biggest pieces. But it doesn’t keep them from their quarry for long, and what little distance Cinderella manages to put between them and herself is undone as soon as the monsters remember what they’ve been chasing.

She runs as hard as she can, encouraged by the lamplight finally peeking through the trees ahead, but an unexpected dip in the path twists her ankle and sends her stumbling. Her elbow strikes the earth, shooting pain from her wrist to her shoulder, and already, she knows it’s too late to keep going. It’s too late, and it’s too much. The chatter of monsters closes in around her, and with horrible helplessness, Cinderella closes in around herself as well. She curls on her side in the dirt, squeezes her eyes shut, and clasps her hands over her ears, trying in vain to block out the impending whistle as another pumpkin bomb drops out of the sky.

She hears the explosion, and she even feels the impact—a tightening of air pressure and a rise in temperature—but she isn’t hurt. Cautiously, she uncovers her ears. The sound of the skirmish is both near and distant, as if she’s hearing it from underwater. It’s blotted out by an inexplicably shiny sound, one that seems to surround her on all sides. She waits a moment, then makes herself get very brave and opens her eyes.

Above her is a prism, like an enormous bubble that floated down and settled over her prone body. Pumpkin pieces are scattered harmlessly across the top of it; some finish rolling away from Cinderella and into the dirt. She barely has time to gawk before a muffled snarl catches her attention. One of the monsters is closing in, led by its outstretched claws, excited by the sight of this strange shield and eager to rip it apart. Cinderella’s entire body flinches, remembering the hands that grabbed at her and tore her clothes mere hours ago. She sits up and scrambles backward in desperate panic. This barrier, strong enough to stop a bomb, suddenly means nothing. Anything close enough to touch her is close enough to hurt her. Physical space is the only measure of safety in her life.

But before the monster can lay a hand on the shield, someone else does. The contact sends ripples across its surface, melting down the sides like candle wax. Cinderella presses against the back wall and looks up just in time to see someone vault over the dome, kick the monster with both feet, and crash gracelessly to the ground along with it.

The ensuing scuffle is vicious, but brief. When the monster dissolves in a writhing mass of what looks like smoke and ice, Cinderella finally gets a good look at her rescuer. She holds her breath, recognizing her as the mysterious but benevolent stranger from the château. The young woman wastes no time as she rises to her feet and backs toward the barrier— _her_ barrier, Cinderella realizes. A protective bubble that the woman not only constructed but is actively maintaining. Cinderella sits up further, trying to see past the flashing hexagonal pattern.

The woman places herself between Cinderella and her foes, weapon at the ready. She doesn’t hold it in front of her, defensively, but behind her, poised and elegant. She stands perfectly upright with only an empty and relaxed hand before her, as if that’s all she needs to keep her enemies at bay.

Cinderella’s eyes stay fixed on that strange sword, sleek and blue and mystical, and she thinks about being locked out of the pantry outside of strictly-monitored mealtimes. She thinks about being locked in her own bedroom every night until five in the morning, when she’s expected to be awake and ready to start her chores, picking up from where she’d left off six hours earlier. She thinks about being locked out of the house for no reason other than the amusement of her step-sisters, who jeered from the window and shoved each other in wicked delight, and then in annoyance, and then in a genuine fight, so full of vitriol and hate that it spilled out onto each other as much as it did to Cinderella.

She thinks about how much of her life she’s lived on the wrong sides of locked doors.

A new monster staggers toward them, and Cinderella shrinks back, but her…it would be presumptuous to think of this woman as _her_ defender, she knows. But she stands up straighter, and a moment later, Cinderella learns why she holds her weapon behind her. She uses that stance to gather momentum, swinging the sword in a full arc. It connects with its target in an upward sweep, without mercy or restraint, and flings the monster clear off the ground and into the air.

After that, Cinderella can barely follow along. Not once does the woman relent; every step, every lunge, every swing of her sword leads seamlessly into the next movement, until Cinderella feels like she’s watching a vicious dance more than a fight.

What she _can_ see, however, is the pumpkin-turned-coach-turned-nightmare. It’s been lumbering around the edge of the clearing, keeping its distance from the newcomer. Now, it tenses its vine-feet, sinks the thorns as deep into the ground as they can go, and starts to…god, it starts to _inhale_.

Cinderella beats her fist against the barrier, sending fireworks across it, and yells, “ _Look out_!” The woman vanquishes another creature and pauses, turning to face Cinderella. Before she has time to register what she’s pointing at, she feels the current catch her. The hand closest to the monster—the one that holds her weapon—starts to go first.

Her response is instantaneous. She has to use her entire upper body to fight against the wind, but she yanks the weapon back, gripping it with both hands. Her clothing flutters ahead of her, and her hair whips wildly in her face, but her legs, arms, and back are tense, and she digs her feet into the soil, resisting. As Cinderella watches with equal parts horror and awe, the woman starts to glow. The light looks impossibly tangible as it shudders down her limbs, pouring off her like flames. The woman grits her teeth, and as soon as the light finds its way to the tip of the sword, she points it at the monster and bellows a word that Cinderella can’t remember hearing another woman say in a long, long time.

“ _No_!”

It bursts out of her like an instinct, and with it, the light—the magic—fires, launching a volley of colors. It strikes the monster, which chokes and sputters and tries to rid itself of the taste, giving the woman a chance to fire a follow-up shot. But the monster recovers in time to spit another pumpkin, and the two projectiles collide in the middle of the courtyard.

The woman drops her guard for just a moment, coughing acrid smoke out of her mouth and blinking away tears, and the telltale whistle of another bomb is the only thing that lets her block the next attack in time. One second, she’s standing with an arm at her side, the other covering her mouth, her shoulders slack. The next, she’s holding the sword like a bat, deflecting the pumpkin away from herself and Cinderella. She knocks it into the air, stumbling back a few steps from the force of it, and it shoots into the sky like a rocket, leaving an erratic and crackling trail of magic behind.

Cinderella watches it go, captivated by the sight in spite of her fear. But the stranger pays it no mind. The monster is winding up for a third attack, and—per the laws of all fairy tale worlds—the third time is the charm. She holds her sword across her torso, one hand braced flat against the toothed end. She takes a deep breath, bends her knees, and shifts her weight to the balls of her feet. The monster roars and fires another bomb like a cannonball, doused in so much magic that it’s more of a raw explosive than the pumpkin it once was. When it hits the sword, the woman skids backward, her shoes cutting deep grooves into the soil. She lets out a cry at the strain, but it’s worth it. The pumpkin ricochets back the way it came, bursting in the monster’s grotesque face.

It sways, stunned by the impact, and the woman casts _something_ , a spell unlike anything Cinderella has seen tonight. Not transformative magic like her Godmother, but magic of pure creation, and destruction. When the dazzle of light and color clears, and Cinderella can stand to open her eyes again, all that remains of the monster is a scorch mark in the earth, and a few dark tendrils disappearing quickly in the night. Not even a pumpkin seed is left behind.

The few lingering monsters have yet to realize what’s happened, still driven by a brainless compulsion to inflict pain. The woman gathers herself, and then—and at this point, Cinderella swears she must be dreaming, because everything that’s happened this evening has been either too wondrous or too horrible to be real—she starts to glow, and she starts to spin. She looks like she’s skating, but she lifts off the ground, turning herself into a vortex, a rogue star that draws her enemies into orbit and then flings them back, over and over again, until they disappear.

She continues to spin, even when the monsters are gone, and Cinderella continues to watch, entranced. Gradually, the woman slows down and descends, her feet touching the ground once more. She gives herself a minute to catch her breath and regain her equilibrium, and then she remembers that she’s left Cinderella cowering in the bubble. She hurries over, looking anxious, but Cinderella doesn’t mind. She needed a moment to come back down to earth, too.

The woman waves her arm, and both the sword and shield disappear. “Are you all right?” she asks, offering her hand. Cinderella takes it gratefully, letting the woman pull her to her feet and lay a steadying hand on her back when she reels.

“Yes. I think so. Just…a little shaken.” She tries to laugh it off, but the woman’s eyebrows knit together.

“I’m sorry,” she says in earnest, drawing her hand away. “I tried to get here sooner.”

Cinderella doesn’t know what to say. She hasn’t had much practice responding to apologies. Instead, she regards this woman carefully. A moment ago, she’d been fighting with the ferocity of a divine being, sent down from the heavens—and Cinderella isn’t fully convinced that this isn’t the case. She warded off monsters with magic. She offered comfort and protection. She flew. What more could it take for someone to be considered a guardian angel?

But now she's back to being a humble and well-spoken and proper young woman. If she had simply worn a tailored suit and polished shoes, she could have attended the royal ball, no questions asked. People would have bowed and ushered her inside, and asked if they could fetch her a refreshment, and worried themselves over whether someone like her would do the honor of sharing a dance with someone like them. With her natural demeanor, she could achieve what Cinderella had needed enchantments and a disguise to pull off for just a few short hours.

But here Cinderella is, with her commoner clothing, her outdated hairstyle, her dull and ill-fitting shoes. And here’s her champion, gazing at her the same way everyone else had looked at her when she was at her most radiant, in her ballgown and glass slippers.

“Please—there’s no need to apologize,” Cinderella murmurs. “I’m indebted to you. This is the second time you’ve come to my rescue tonight. Thank you, Miss.”

The woman smiles, charmed by the way Cinderella holds onto her manners, even in the face of danger. She doesn’t know that good manners have been Cinderella’s best and only defense against danger since she was a little girl.

“Please,” the woman says gently, and it has such a different effect when she says it—more poised than pleading—“call me Aqua.”

Cinderella bows her head and repeats, “Thank you, Aqua.”

Aqua nods as well, and they stand there in the courtyard for a few minutes, letting the evening settle back in peacefully. A soft breeze clears most of the smoke away, and around them, the crickets tentatively begin their songs again, now that the commotion has died down.

“Do you think you can manage walking?” Aqua eventually asks. Cinderella subconsciously taps her foot, as if she’s testing it.

“I believe so.”

“May I escort you back to the palace, then?” Aqua says, offering her arm. “There’s someone waiting to see you.”

Cinderella slips her hand under Aqua’s arm and allows herself to be led down the darkening path. She wants to see the one who’s waiting for her, too. But the person awaiting her safe return isn’t the same person who ensured it.

It won’t take long to reach the palace. The way is quiet, and rid of monsters. Still, Cinderella drifts a little closer to Aqua’s side, just in case.


End file.
